


Walkabout

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Journey, M/M, Postcards, Self-Discovery, Stanford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-27 04:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17759423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: Jessica just died burning on the ceiling of her and Sam's apartment. Dean urges Sam to leave school and join him in hunting, but Sam, shocked and grieving, decides to go on a bit of a walkabout by himself and learn more about who he is.





	Walkabout

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a Mini Bang for the 2019 Sam Winchester Big Bang. The beautiful art is by the wonderful [apataeavaca (Tumblr)](apataeavaca.tumblr.com), who was such a delight to work with as well as being super talented! Thank you, bb! Be sure to swing by her Tumblr and let her know your appreciation! Thanks to [blackrabbit42](blackrabbit42.livejournal.com) for an insightful alpha read, and [theatregirl7299](theatregirl7299.livejournal.com)for her excellent beta work!

The flashing yellow and red lights of the fire trucks lent an almost weirdly festive air to the night. People crowded all around, staring at the decimated building, oohing and ahhing over the destruction. The smell of smoke lay heavy; soot and wet and the fainter, more unpleasant notes of burnt plastic and food.

Sam stood staring blankly at the building he lived in until half an hour ago, unable to completely comprehend what had happened. All he owned at this point was whatever he'd taken with him when he'd gone with Dean to look for their father. His laptop, a couple of books, some dirty clothes, a few toiletries. Everything else he possessed was now ashes or melted lumps of black, smelly crap.

Someone bumped into him, and Sam looked around, slightly dazed. People were leaving—the show was over. Across the street, he saw his downstairs neighbors, another young student couple, being led away by what must be one set of parents. They were upset, sure, but Sam knew they'd get to replace everything; new computers, new clothes, and carry right on with life. For him, it would be back to the thrift stores and the big Goodwill in town to scrounge some basics. As for where he was going to live for now, well...it wasn't going to be at the nice house his parents owned in the suburbs. There was no nice house, and there were no parents.

There was Dean, however. Sam knew Dean wouldn't stand for Sam going to a shelter tonight. Wherever Dean was staying, Sam would be staying. A day, a week, no matter—Dean always took care of his little brother.

As if Dean had heard Sam's thoughts, he came up and bumped shoulders. “Hey, Sammy. What do you think, ready to go crash?” His voice was gruff but soft, and Sam just wanted to curl up in it for the next decade. His shoulders sagged with fatigue and grief. He couldn't bear to even attempt to think about anything.

“Yeah, guess so.” Sam watched as a couple of the fire trucks pulled away; the light gray smoke had reflected the flashing emergency lights, but now it contrasted against the dark sky. “Dunno if I can sleep.”

“Then we'll have some drinks, and sleep in the morning.” A heavy, warm hand gripped Sam's shoulder and squeezed. “Whatever you need, man.”

Sam nodded, a thick lump in his throat blocking his words, and he followed Dean back to the Impala. Even the car looked sympathetic, shine subdued, creaks muffled as he got into the passenger seat. He patted her dashboard.

Dean got in and slammed his door shut, starting the car and pulling away toward the highway out of town. “Couple a drinks, little shut-eye, okay? No rush, Sammy.” 

Sam nodded again, still mute. The horror of the night was there, right there waiting for him, and he just hoped the full realization of it would wait until they got to whatever seedy hotel Dean was staying at. Wait until Sam got out of his smoke-stinking clothes, washed the burnt smell out of his hair and off his skin. Wait until he was fortified with whiskey or tequila or whatever booze Dean had at hand, several shots of it burning hot and strong in his belly, washed down by cold beer. 

If he was really lucky, he wouldn't feel anything until he passed out, unconscious hours ticking by before waking and finding tonight's horror was still there, waiting for his sticky eyes to open blearily, for him to register his full bladder and his hungry belly before despair swooped down on him. Before tonight swallowed him up, like a huge black Nazgul, sending him tumbling down a dark tunnel until he fetched up hard in the small, cold cell that would be his grief, his admission of his loss, the evisceration of his heart.

Jessica was gone.

The next two or three days were difficult for Sam to recall later. Everything happened in a haze, like he was wrapped in gauze and nothing could really touch him. He mechanically ate some food when his stomach started aching, took care of his hygiene as prompted by the time of day, lay down to sleep when it was dark. True sleep never really occurred; it was more a mixture of restless dozing and staring at the ceiling, which resulted in dry, itchy eyes and a brain that couldn't comprehend simple tasks. Part of him wanted to rush off in a frenzy to hunt down Jessica's killer, and part of him knew that they'd probably never know who that killer was. Either way, Sam felt like he was only living a half-life, and he had no idea how to get past it. Or even if he wanted to get past it.

Dean, of course, wanted Sam to come with him. “We'll be a team.” Dean's voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes were soft as they gazed at Sam. “Don't worry about Dad, he's always off doing his own thing now. We'll still do the family business, but we'll have some fun too.”

Sam felt the pull to go with Dean. Dean had always been the most important person in his life, and it would be a relief to go with him, let his older brother take care of him. It was just...

Two issues deterred him. One was that Sam wasn't a child anymore, not a moody, needy teenager even. He was—or should be—past the point where he needed his older brother to take care of him. Sam needed to finish growing up, that had been part of his idea about coming to Stanford in the first place, and frankly he wasn't going to do that under Dean's protective wing. Despite the hellish circumstances, it was time for Sam to face life on his own two feet.

The other issue was also Dean-related. Living in each other's back pockets for their whole lives, Sam knew that his world view was perhaps...unhealthily focused on his brother. Dean was handsome, strong, enormously skilled in many ways, but...without having anyone else to love and trust unconditionally, Sam had fixated on his brother. In every possible way.

Nothing major had really transpired between them, but Sam knew they'd come close to that line. Dean having sex where he knew Sam could see. Heated moments during sparring, crotches pressed together as they panted for supremacy. Sam was pretty sure most guys didn't know what their brother's erection felt like against their own. And a few, a very few, furtive, fleeting kisses before they hurled themselves away from each other, sweaty and hard, with Dean heading out to a bar and Sam hiding in bed with a book after a swift jerk off session in the bathroom.

Being with Jess had been a big step out of that shadow and into his identity as an adult, and Sam felt sure he should continue that aspect of his personal growth.

Dean didn't seem overly surprised at Sam's decision, although he was clearly disappointed. “Sure, I get it, Sammy. Doesn't mean I'm not gonna worry about you. You better check in with me or you'll get a beat-down next time I see you.” He reached out and ruffled Sam's hair. “You do you, bro.”

The town of Palo Alto had put Sam up in a motel room, since he had no recorded family to stay with. It was fine; his family had no fixed home anyway, and motels felt as familiar as anything else. Sam didn't even know where his father was. Dean didn't stay with him at the motel. Sam assumed his brother was giving him some space, and that was fine. Fine if he did, fine if he didn't, everything was fine, fine, fine.

After a couple of weeks, a woman from Social Services came to check on Sam. Rapping on the door of his room, she smiled when he answered, her shoulder-length blond hair framing her face. Soft brown eyes gazed at Sam above a wide mouth tinted a deep rose.

“Hi, Sam. I don't know if you remember me? I'm Dana Fleming from Social Services. We met after...after the fire. May I come in for a minute?”

Sam stared at her for a moment before her request sank in. “Oh, yeah, sure. Come on in.” He fell back to allow her entrance. She took a couple of steps into the room and stopped, looking around curiously. Sam waited for her to sit down, but then it dawned on him that there was no place for her to sit. Dirty clothes, his school books, newspapers, takeout containers and pizza boxes, all were strewn over the table, chairs, the other bed, and falling onto the floor. Out of habit, he'd been refusing maid service, simply ordering more sheets and towels as needed, and he hadn't had the energy or inclination himself to clean up at all, instead spending hours sleeping or staring off into space.

“Oh, uh, sorry.” Sam hastily swept a chair clear of clutter for Ms. Fleming, embarrassment flaming his cheeks. “I'm kinda behind on...I mean, it's...” His voice faltered. 

“Don't worry about it. Although perhaps next time you go out, you might want to let the maid in.” She smiled again. “I understand tidying up hasn't been a priority.”

“Yeah.” Sam sank down on the end of his bed and folded his arms up tight against his ribs.

“Now, I wanted to update you on where we're at.” Dana ruffled through the papers in the leatherette portfolio she had with her. “First off, I'm very sorry, but essentially nothing was able to be salvaged from the apartment.” Her smile disappeared, her head shook sympathetically. “I have the statement here from the Palo Alto Fire Department that you can use to inform your insurance company of the loss, and make a claim for replacements.” She handed a paper to Sam, who took it dumbly.

_Insurance claim?_ Sam stared uncomprehendingly at the paper in his hand. Heedless of Sam's confusion, Dana continued on.

“The entire building has been structurally compromised, so it's going to be torn down. The owner plans to rebuild, but obviously that will take some time, probably over a year. As you were simply a tenant, you will have no guarantee of occupancy after the rebuild, it will be entirely up to the owner.” She stopped and looked at Sam. “Do you understand, Sam?”

Yeah, he did. His home for the past couple of years, the home he'd made with Jessica, was gone. Sam nodded, unable to come up with any words that could make it past his choked throat.

“Okay. I'm sorry this hasn't been the best news.” Dana tsked. “Frankly, it's not getting any better either.” She closed the portfolio. Her eyes looked at Sam sorrowfully, and her sweet pink mouth turned down at the corners. “Sam, I'm afraid the town is not going to continue your temporary lease here. I have to tell you that you have ten days to find other lodging or take over renting this room on your own finances.”

Sam looked at her, struggling to understand what she was staying. He had to vacate in ten days? Otherwise the room would be on his dime? It's not like he should expect to stay here as long as he liked, he supposed. He hadn't even thought about that possibility until Ms. Dana Fleming brought it up. He hadn't worked at his part-time job at the bookstore since the fire; his manager had probably already replaced him. Even if Sam could still work there, after he paid for the room he'd have little left for anything else.

He could almost laugh. What next?

“Sam? Can you apply back at student housing, check for a dorm room?” Dana's voice was soft and sad, and he realized she wasn't happy about any of this either. “Do you have savings at the bank, can you maybe swing a studio apartment or find a roommate?”

Sam did have some money in the bank, but he wasn't sure if it was enough to cover first & last, as well as replacing all of his things. Plus, the thought of returning to the dorms reeked of failure, almost a backslide to childhood after becoming an adult.

“Yeah, I probably can live at the dorm again on my scholarship,” he said. Between feeling like he'd failed and his lack of interest in returning to school without Jessica, he knew that was not the course he'd be taking. “I understand. I'll be out of here by then.” Out of Stanford, out of Palo Alto, out of “normal” life. Without Jessica, he was done.

“I'm so sorry, Sam.” Dana stood and arranged her leather portfolio under her arm, smoothing her hair. She looked young and pretty, professional in her pale green suit. Sam saw another face overlay Dana's, saw her hair lengthen to her waist, her figure grow curvier. Jessica looked at him, a Jessica launched on her career, beautiful and capable and funny and kind. Tears clouded Sam's eyes.

“Oh dear...oh, I am so sorry. Here,” said Dana's voice, and Jessica melted away. “Here's a tissue.” A tissue was pressed into his hand, and reflexively he wiped his eyes with it. “I wish there was more, there was something I could do. I'd be happy to provide a reference for an apartment. Is there anything I can--”

Sam was already shaking his head. 

“No, thank you. I'll—I've got it.” He cleared his throat. “I'll be fine.”

They both knew it was a lie.

Sam didn't wait for his time at the Mountain View Inn to run out. He packed up what little he had—the things he had with him during the woman-in-white hunt, the clothes and toiletries he'd purchased with the vouchers Social Services had provided to him—it barely filled his back pack, his duffle, and a new duffle besides. Looking at the bags piled by the door made Sam feel like no time had passed at all since he graduated high school. No years studying at the school of his dreams, no days filled with studying and friends. No nights lying next to Jessica, her body warm and welcoming, her curves filling his hands, her love filling his heart.

Like none of it never happened.

Here stood Sam Winchester, son of John, brother of Dean, hunter, scholar of ancient languages and rituals, crack shot, precision knife thrower, born in flames and fostered by a culture based on killing monsters, right back where he started from four years ago, except for his missing heart. A casualty of war.

_Come on, Winchester. If you're giving up right this second, just blow your brains out and have done with it, spare us all. Otherwise, pick your damn bags up and move your damn gigantor feet and walk out that door. You gotta start again, and you can't do that here. Like the bartenders say, you don't have to go home but you can't stay here._ If the voice pushing Sam into action sounded like Dean, well, Sam wasn't going to wonder about it too much.

Sam Winchester took a deep breath, picked up his bags, and walked out the door.

Palermo, CA

Sam opted for the Motel 6 because it was in the center of town, so he figured it would be easier for finding a job. The room wasn't awful, more faded and worn than actually dirty. Maybe being in town kept it more on the up-and-up than the no-tells on the outskirts that the Winchesters usually stayed at. Sam tossed his bags onto the far bed, idly wondering why he'd gotten a double. Reflex, he figured. It didn't cost that much more.

He headed back to the front desk, smiling at the older woman behind the counter. Sticking out his hand, he said, “Hi, I'm Sam Winchester.”

She laughed, her smile lightening the look of fatigue on her face. “Yes, I got that when you signed the guestbook.”

He ducked his head in a moment of bashfulness. “Yeah. I just wanted to introduce myself properly. I'm hoping to be here a while, which is something I hoped you might be able to help me with. I'm looking for a job here in town, and I thought you might be able to give me a couple of leads.”

Palermo, CA  
Postcard: Dean Winchester

_Dean--  
Here's my first stopping point. Going to take 2-3 weeks here, hang out, wash some dishes & catch my breath._

_I'm sorry..._

_Sam_

 

Sam sighed as he stuck his hands into the hot, soapy water. All the dishes were done, and he was down to the last pans of the night. Sally and Berta were joking around as they wiped the table and counters, making sure everything was set up for the morning. 

His back ached from bending over the sink, which of course was too short for someone as tall as he was, and his skin stung from the dish soap and hot water. Yet he felt comfortable here; Patsy's Diner was like all the other diners he'd grown up in, the food not fancy but good, and there were no demands on him other than wash this, mop that.

As initial stopping points went, he could have done worse.

Paradise, CA

Voicemail: Bobby Singer

_“Hey Bobby. Just wanted to say hi and let you know I'm okay. **voice clears** Um, you probably already know from Dean that I left Stanford. I could have gone off with Dean, but I ...I just wasn't ready to get back into that, you know? I'm taking a, I guess a little break, and I'm just kinda meandering up the coast a bit while I figure out what to do. I've got some weapons and I'm being safe, but I just...I think I gotta take a little time, Bobby. I'll call again soon._ **click**

Sam lay back on the thin mattress of his motel bed, flipping through the seven channels he had to choose from. A couple of reality shows—no, he didn't need the plastic manufactured kind of reality like Paris Hilton or The Bachelor. A couple of movies, but nothing he felt like watching. Some new show about fishing for king crab called _Deadliest Catch._ _NCIS._ Well, he did love him some _NCIS_ —seriously, how did people not realize that Tony and Gibbs were a thing?--but tonight, he'd give the Bering Sea fishermen a shot. He cracked open a beer, pulled the chair with the pizza box on it closer so he could reach it from the bed, and settled back.

Newell, CA

Voicemail: John Winchester

_“Hey Dad. Sorry I haven't called sooner, but I'm assuming Dean has caught you up on things. I've, um, I'm not at Stanford, Dad. I left. My--**voice chokes** well, I'm sure Dean told you what happened._

_I guess you were right, Dad. I didn't belong there. I thought I did, and I tried, but...thing is, I'm not sure I belong hunting either, or at least not yet. I gotta...I need to figure some shit out, okay? So please don't be mad that I didn't come back with Dean, but...let me figure things out._

_I love you, Dad.”_ **click**

 

Voicemail: Dean Winchester

_“Hey Dean, just giving you a heads up that I finally left Dad a message. Of course I have no idea how he'll react, or even if he'll listen to it, so I thought you should know._

_Not going to lie, dude, I miss you like fuck. It would be really easy in a lot of ways to just throw in the towel, leave this behind and be a hunter with you again. I just...the longer I'm on my own here, the clearer it seems to me that I—I need to do this. Like they do walkabout in Australia, you know? A rite of passage. This is my walkabout. I haven't ever been an adult on my own before. I'm still grieving, but I'm also realizing that I have to do some serious growing up._

_I'll call or post again soon, jerk.”_

Plush, OR

Sam had a routine now, for when he moved into a new town. First job was finding a room to rent—this generally got him a better, cleaner, homier living space than a motel, plus was more suited to a longer term stay. Recommendations for temporary or low-level jobs were gathered via the landlord and people at the diners he frequented. Sometimes those very diners hired him on the spot, since Sam now had plenty of experience as a dishwasher or maintenance man, and had even done some grill work and kitchen prep. Other times he might end up in a small grocery store or other shop, stocking and cleaning.

It'd happened frequently that he'd cobble together two or three part-time jobs to cover the amount of money he needed to earn. That was fine with him; these were not intellectually demanding jobs, and the variety made things a little more interesting. Plus he met more people that way, and one thing Sam had learned during his journey so far is that people were interesting in a way he hadn't really considered before. They weren't just victims or bad guys, not always helpless or evil, but had a lot of facets that constantly piqued his curiosity. In the toil of research or the heat of a hunt, there had never time to _think_ \--to observe, ponder, consider what it all meant.

Now he had the time.

Postcard: Dean Winchester

_Hey bro,_

_I crossed over into Oregon. Feels like a BFD to be leaving Cali, like big changes are on the horizon. Won't mind if one of them is no more dishwashing. Hope you still love me even with dishpan hands ;-)_

_Stay safe, Dean. I might not be there, but you are always my rock._

_Sam_

Postcard: Pastor Jim, Blue Earth

_Hey Pastor,_

_Long time no talk. Sorry, that's all on me._

_I'm...okay. Don't know if Dad or Dean filled you in but I left Stanford. They'll tell you why._

_Just kinda making my way up the coast from Palo Alto. I needed...some space. Hitting the road to hunt again didn't feel right. I think I need/needed to grow up some more first._

_Please keep an eye on my dad and my brother?_

_Thank you,  
Sam_

Postcard: Sam Winchester from Dean Winchester

_Dear Princess,_

_I was going to send you a little pink diary with a key, but instead you can have this postcard from Jugs, Nevada. Check out the jugs on that chick! **crudely drawn googly eyes**_

_Seriously, thanks for the postcards. I like to hear what you're up to, and where you are. Me, I'm doing the usual. Always plenty of work in the family business, you know?_

_Don't do anything stupid, you hear me, bitch?_

_Dean_

Sam smiled at the mention of the pink diary. He remembered being little, five or so, and seeing a little fat book with a magic key so it could lock away all of your special thoughts. Of course they didn't buy it, there wasn't money for silly shit like that, and later he outgrew the attraction to bright, colorful things like that.

He did find himself thinking about writing down his thoughts and feelings these days, though. While his life had been full of new towns, now it was all at his own pace. All the people he met showed him new things about life and about himself. His money was all his own, earned by his own hands and labor. The next afternoon, he stopped in the little general store between shifts, and perused their small stationary section.

Seeing a couple of pretty diaries, complete with keys, made Sam smile, and he trailed a finger down their bright covers. He wasn't five anymore though, so he selected a slim 5x7 notebook with a ribbon bookmark, and a couple of nicer black pens. Carrying them out of the store, he felt...triumphant, like he'd reclaimed—no, there was nothing to reclaim here. He was venturing into new territory, exploring fresh horizons, and that-- _that_ was reason to smile.

_Dear Jess,_

_It might seem weird to write to you like this, but I feel like I still have things to tell you. It took me two or three months just to stop feeling like my heart was ripped out of my chest. It still hurts, but the edges are getting a little softer._

_There was so much you didn't know, so many things I never shared with you or told you. You never knew about my dad. You knew I had a brother, got to meet him for a moment, but you never knew how amazing he was. I never told you about the barrenness of our lives, the rootlessness and hardship. You were always so amused by how much I loved the little things, like a full refrigerator, or little routines we developed. They meant to much to me, Jess. It was all about us building a life together, a normal life, and it was_ everything. __

_Now that it's all gone, and you are gone, my love, I'm starting over. I couldn't go back to my father and brother—I'm not ready to resume that life. I'm meandering northward, staying in little towns here and there, doing odd-jobs. I don't know what I'm really looking for yet, but I feel content with this. I'm giving myself time to grieve, time to grow up, space to figure out what I want and need, now that everything has changed so much._

_I'll be writing in this notebook a lot, sweetheart, but I wanted the first entry to be for you._

_I love you, Jess._

Brothers, Oregon  
Pop 6,351

Sam let one of his duffles drop onto the grass as he fished out a water bottle. He'd been hiking for a couple of miles, enjoying the lush greenery that flanked Rt. 97. A couple of cars had slowed to offer a ride, but Sam was in no hurry and waved them on. Funny how quickly he'd adapted to having no schedule but his own over these last months. His choice to move along, his choice to stop and work—it was all as he decided, no school or hunt to dictate to him.

Now he was hungry, so time to head into town and find a likely-looking diner. Lunch was the main issue, but if the town looked as pleasant as the countryside, he might look for a place to bunk for a while too.

Two hours later, Sam pushed away his plate and hid a burp with his napkin. The food had been cheap and tasty, tempting him to eat more than he really needed. As he sighed with pleasure, the server stopped by with a coffee pot.

“Freshen your cup?” She asked, brows raised questioningly. Gray curls highlighted with bright blue crowned a lightly tanned face, the blue in her hair bringing out her light blue eyes. 

Sam glanced at her name tag. “Thank you, Paulette. I'd love some more coffee.” He sighed happily. “That was really delicious.”

“I'll pass your regards on to our cook. Can I get you anything else?”

“Nothing more to eat, I'll burst. I did want to ask if you might be looking for a dishwasher, or if you know anyplace in town that's hiring. I just got here and I'm looking to stay a bit.”

“Well, you'll have to talk to Matt Folson, this is his place, but he don't need a dishwasher. Murphy's nephew does all that—he's a bit simple, and he loves doing scrubbing everything clean. Might need help in the kitchen, you ever do line work?”

Sam nodded. “Nothing fancy, but I can grill burgers and make sandwiches, do up stuff in the deep fryer.”

“Okay, you got a number? I'll have Matt call you. He's out getting supplies right now.” Paulette patted her 'do. “Sure be nice to have someone cute as you around, Stretch.” She laughed and walked off, leaving Sam blushing in his seat.

Postcard: Dean Winchester

_Hey bro-_

_Graduated out of dishwashing. I've been the line cook for Matt's Mighty Eats these last couple of months. Moved up from a room to a real apartment too. Here's my new address._

_Stay safe, jerk._

Voicemail: Bobby Singer

_“Hey Bobby, wanted to update my address for you. I'm in Madras, Oregon, got a job and an apartment. Three whole rooms instead of one. Hope you're well, stop by if you're out here, okay?”_

Sam tossed the television remote onto the rickety coffee table with a sigh. He'd been around his eight channels three times already, and it wasn't getting any better. He had a small library of used paperbacks in a milk crate, but he'd read them all half a dozen times. The steady rain precluded a walk. Sam felt restless and bored, pacing slowly around his living room, into the bedroom, and back out to the living room again.

He stooped and stared out one dormered living room window, sighing in frustration. Turning away from the annoying rain, he looked around the room for some inspiration. 

Resting in the crate with the paperbacks, beside the sagging rust-colored couch, was a notebook.

_Oh yeah,_ thought Sam. _I don't think I've cracked that since I got it, after I wrote that letter to Jess. ___

He went over and picked it up, sitting on the couch and flipping to the beginning. Reading what he'd written to Jessica made his eyes water a little, but he wiped them dry and turned a couple of pages to a fresh, blank one.

_What would I like to read?_

Picking up a pen from one of the motels he'd stayed in, he wrote,

_The road was empty. Mist curled in tendrils around the trestles of the bridge, reminding Dane Remington of every spooky movie he'd ever seen. He tightened his hands on the steering wheel of his '68 Challenger and took a deep breath. Somewhere up ahead was his quarry—the ghost of a woman killed in despair who was now haunting the road._

_And it was Dane's job to end her ghost._

_He pressed down on the accelerator and took off, shredding the mist and heading straight into danger._

Sam reread what he'd written and nodded. “I like it.”

Postcard: Dean Winchester

 _Hey, dude, I wrote a book! It's actually getting published and coming out next month. Look for_ Night Road to Danger _by Sam Wesson. Decided to use a pen name._

Hope you are staying safe. I know you probably aren't, but stay in one piece anyway, okay?

Sam

 

Voicemail: Sam Winchester from Dean Winchester

_“Hey Sammy. Nice job on the book. Faking out the Muggles, huh? Makes good reading though. Of course, Dane was fucking awesome. Maybe next time he could get some babe action. Or even better, some babe-on-babe action. **crude noises** seriously, congrats, dude.”_

 

Voicemail: Sam Winchester from Bobby Singer

_“Hey Sam, congratulations. Dean told me about your book. I read it, and you did a terrific job._

_I'm trying to keep an eye on your brother, but you know how he is. I haven't seen John in a while, but you know how_ he _is._

_Glad life is treating you a little better, son.”_

Sam sat uncomfortably in the tall director's chair, facing the overly-perky reporter. She adjusted her lip gloss one last time and turned to Sam.

Reporter: Hi, this is Ally Simmons from E! Online. We're super lucky to have scored a rare interview with the reclusive author Sam Wesson today. Sam, how are you?

Sam: Good, good. (visibly fidgeting)

Ally: Great. Now Sam, I know you don't generally give live interviews, but I'm so pleased you agreed to give us a little time today. What made you decide to meet with us?

Sam: Well, I know people are curious, and generally I like to protect my privacy, but I did have some news I thought I'd like to share.

Ally: Oh, a scoop! Do tell!

Sam: I've been very, very lucky that people have enjoyed my Dane Remington books. I kind of started on a whim, but he really caught the public's fancy. I'm not Stephen King or anything by any means, but I've been able to live comfortably and enjoy writing, and that's meant a lot to me.

Ally: The Dane Remington fandom certainly has been a loyal one.

Sam: Exactly. So I felt I owed it to them to make this announcement live. A new Dane Remington story is hitting the stores next week, and...it's the last one.

**reporter and crowd gasp**

Ally: What do you mean? Does Dane meet his end?

Sam: Well, you'll have to read it to find out. **grins** But I've written everything I can about Dane, and it's time for me to move on.

Ally: Do you have a new book or character in the works?

Sam: Not entirely. I need to take a break for a while, but of course I have ideas. I haven't made any decisions yet. It's time to just be myself for a little while.

Ally: Well, very exciting if somewhat sad news, that the final Dane Remington book will be on the stands next week...

A couple of days after the E! Interview, Sam returned home from some errands. He let himself into the house, feeling enveloped by the peace that this house always gave him. It wasn't a very large house, but the open floor plan gave it an airy, spacious feel. He kicked off his shoes and grabbed a beer from the stainless French door refrigerator, walking over to the overstuffed leather couch and letting himself unfold onto it. Propping his feet up on the weathered wood coffee table, he took a long pull on the beer and gazed outside the wall-to-floor window at the thicket of trees rustling in the breeze.

The side door opened, and footsteps rang on the slate floor. The fridge opened again, and a bottle cap popped onto the floor.

Sam smiled. “Pick it up, fucker.”

“I hear your fancy ass hero is riding off into the sunset.” said a gruff voice.

Dean plopped onto the couch. He toed his shoes off and put his feet on the table next to Sam's. “What, he do something stupid and get himself offed?”

“No,” said Sam, feeling like his smile was going to float up off his face. “He just..it was time for him to go and live his life.”

Dean drank again. “Like anyone I know?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.” He turned to look at Dean; his eyes traveled over Dean's face, the classic cheekbones, the beautiful mouth, the vibrant green eyes. “There was more of his life he had to go live. And he was ready to live it.”

Dean sighed and put his beer on the coffee table. “Not gonna lie, Sammy, I'm pretty happy to hear that. Wanted you to have whatever you wanted, but...”

“I want you,” said Sam, and he pulled Dean in. Their mouths met like it was yesterday, like they'd never been apart, and the joy of that resonated through Sam down to his toes.

“Well, okay then,” whispered Dean. “Do we have to ride off into the sunset right now though? 'Cause we could...

“Yeah,” whispered Sam back. “Let's do that first.”


End file.
